


Forever And A Day (Hello)

by lindsey_grissom



Category: Doctor Who (2005), Torchwood
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-05-04
Updated: 2008-05-04
Packaged: 2017-10-10 14:02:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/100564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lindsey_grissom/pseuds/lindsey_grissom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Forever is a long time and he's the only constant...</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Forever And A Day (Hello)

**Author's Note:**

> Set so very far into the future.

The pale lights flicker and fail as he passes them by, tiny orbs illuminating his way for just a moment. He doesn't need them, he knows this route, but they're welcome and he misses them like old friends when they're gone.

He wants to take a deep breath but with the weak air, that would be suicide. He can feel the effects of letting half his lungs turn useless and he knows he'll soon be dying of his seventh case of pneumonia this year.

The rocks crunch under his feet, pressing into boots he really should replace, but they're old, like him, and he likes them. Besides; Fredriche is giving him the silent treatment again, and no one makes boots like Fredriche.

He waves to Maurice and Michael as he passes them by, their hands raised in greeting.

He kisses Gwyneth on the cheek, because she's young and pretty, and because he just can't help himself. She doesn't mind, he knows; she never complains.

He darts with light steps around the obstacle course the Rosaline twins have turned the street into yet again, and with a ruffle of their hair, he warns them to watch out for motorists.

Walking passed the Cobblers he learns he was right; Fredriche is still ignoring him. He purses his lips; wonders how to make it up to him this time. He's all flirt and no action these days, but there's a lot to be said for flirting. Might even get those boots out of it.

Pam and Christine are too busy gossiping to acknowledge him, and he makes a note to ask them all about it later; he's developing quite the perchance for gossip. Especially now he rarely features in it.

The fountain by the Square has long since run dry, and he should really fix it, but Thomas is the town's plumber and he hates when someone steps on his toes. Even if it's taking him years to mend.

He can just make out Owan and Maybelle on the hill, red kite ready to fly and a blue picnic blanket spread out beneath them. It doesn't bother them that the last drought killed away any grass. They can always be found on that field.

Marcel stands in front of the garden centre, one man bodyguard, but for the pot belly and missing arm; a terrible accident with a fly-away spanner that Jack apologises for every day since.

He does it again as he moves passed him, and gets nothing but stony silence in return. He can't really say he's surprised, but it's been twenty years now, it's threatening to shake the foundations of his life; no one's ignored him this long before. Not even Fredriche.

The garden centre isn't crowded, though he makes sure to avoid the gaggle of children laughing in the gnome aisle.

He passes about six people, acknowledges some, others he dips his chin at, but nothing more. He's never found the time to know those few.

He approaches the last greenhouse, fourth on the left, quietly; this is the last plant left in the centre, and he's been watching it grow for some time.

The temperature and light inside are optimum for survival, and the irrigation is automatic; he's checked and re-checked so many times.

But there's nothing living in here now, except himself, and even that's severely tested when he sees the dried brown leaves and the crumpled stalk.

And when his heart restarts again, each beat shakes his world just a little more. Because this wasn't just the last plant in the centre, it was the last plant in town, on the planet, in the universe.

And he backs away quickly, runs from the centre like the long gone Reapers are after him, and for the first time he doesn't care when Marcel topples over, face hitting the pavement and crumbling to dust.

He runs and runs, not seeing, eyes closed because the darkness is familiar, more familiar than the perpetual night the planet's suffering.

He hits something hard and stumbles back. Opens his eyes.

He'd forgotten this box, this blue box; no longer bigger on the inside, wood rotting to grey; a victim of the storms, stranded here oh so long ago.

It's like waking up from a dream. Even without natural light everything looks clear, brighter, black, whites and greys but he can see the colours and they hurt. Because the people, the friends he's made, they're pale and cold and unmoving. And he remembers. Remembers building statues in their memory as the last of them lost their lives. Remembers the moment of knowing there was just him and the plants, forever, until the blackness swallows them whole. Remembers the first time Gwyneth spoke to him as he passed her by in the street. The first time he heard the town filled with life again.

But it's gone. Silence where he remembers so much noise. His shallow breaths; solitary where he remembers so much laughter. He wants it back; this reality he created for himself.

So he runs again until he reaches Gwyneth and he kisses her stone lips, pushing life from his mouth into hers. But it bounces back, keeping him alive when he'd give it all to have them instead.

He kisses and he flirts, he takes her hand and tries to dance. He sings and he jokes. He tries to balance and he falls. And she never moves, and he notices and he can't pretend because he's the last and everything is dead and suddenly he's finding it hard to remember a time when it wasn't.

He pleads and he begs and he cries until his voice is hoarse and then he laughs. Hysterical, choking laughter that knocks him to his knees. And when his voice is almost gone; he introduces himself, and he says hello and vaguely remembers a time when someone would tell him to stop, but he can't really recall the voice and he isn't sure anymore if he even knows the real words; it's more a feeling.

He kneels before the statue and says hello and he begs until he dies again. One sentence over and over, but there's only his own ears to hear. And it hurts.

_"Please say hello, please."_

 

**End.**


End file.
